Im BACK!

Hey, I know I haven't posted in quite a while. I believe I gave up on expressing how I thought or felt. Then, I came back on here - rash decision - and found some really nice comments. It really is fuel in my Coupe DeVille. Thanks to those anonymous and those not so.

I haven't got much to say right now. However I find it paramount to leave you with a little something I wrote.

This ones for those that understand it. This one is also, for those in dark corners.

Ode to the Moon

Moon,
My lover,
My concubine you also are.

May you not wither from the sky, you alone eluminate
Like the roses at night,
Do not surrender your soul to the lure of Sleep
- Lascivious in her ways, she is,
Devious.

You who stays awake with my every brazen whisper,
Solitary in my thought i can never be,
You ponder with your maple face,
Far,
Out of reach for this wayward traveller

Ponder not, no more alone, Moon.
Ponder not, about nights forelorn.

The sky shines for me now;
On you, lies that prudent fate,
Not only are you for me, but I for you.

Oh, who would you be my darling without my face to feel your delicate caress,
The light of your omnipresent hand on my cheek.

And to the Ocean, do not go,
When his messenger Dawn is at your Steppe.

And to the Ocean!
May you fear my rage,
A thousand suns will not procreate from
Your bosom - That horizon,
If for a moment you keep her away,
Away from me at dusk come,
For incessantly she will come,
Out to greet me at my finest hour of day
- I hope.

Mellifluous as the zephyr is at that sacred hour,
Indulgent as the seasons may be,
All is perdition without my Guardian's smile,
Without her electric glance from yonder.

My Moon, my Opiate, my Heroine.
My everlasting desire.

Okay, as I usually do with an introduction, I want to explain my thoughts behind this. Everything has influenced me to write this. It is originally my thought, speaking in the modern meaning of the word. That is: knowing that absolute originality is never possible, but rather it is a combination and resultant of ideas running through my head, that I read, heard, thought of over time. Of course, since it is my one, I am still building on it to make it a lot more concrete, but sometimes building upon ideas makes their foundations a lot more precarious than initially. Also, sometimes instability is a temptation for me, a taboo temptation, which more often than not, I, with blissful excitement linger towards.

Hope you guys get through it and comment. Cause otherwise it would have been pointless to post.

Thanks :)



Idea of Freedom, and Forgetting.

As I mentioned before, that it is plausible, for me, in this state of mind to believe that without the past, we would have a freely floating conscience which in turn, to be logical, describes the state of nothingness, and weightless being.

Hence, I came across a paradox in my thoughts: If the idea of freedom is letting go of all our bonds that tie us down or categorise us, does this not logically mean that we should ‘free’ ourselves from our past, as our past is the only unperturbed anchor that grounds us to reality and that forms our basis of Self. Would this consequently lead to forgetting the past since the only way to be free of something is by forgetting it ever had an impact on you? Will this not lead us astray? And encourages us to wipe clear the earth of human personality? Does it also mean that we will succumb to the ever-growing nature of non-self, non-conscience, and anti-being?

While forgetting the past, we move to juxtapose our current human existence; which is that of past influence, memory, remembering and feelings in regards to stimuli and behaviours learned through previous repetition. To speak in empirical correctness, we could possibly become the antithesis of our humanity, by setting ourselves free. Because isn’t humanity that of succumbing to natures virtues and even vices, as you cannot have one without the other? Is it not humanity to breathe the air of every possible combination Nature – the external world – may through at us? Ultimately, I believe freedom is a result given to the walking corpses of this soil in return for their undying loyalty to surrender everything to the hands of pseudo-hope. In more clear terms, freedom is the finish line, after a life-long battle and endeavour fuelled by false hope. This is just an egocentric human invention, because they want to believe there is some special goal, or bonus that they work towards that comes at the time of death. Hope is that which urges us to endeavour after an obliviously fallible freedom. Freedom, is not only to free yourself from the tyrannical and forceful bonds that clasp fetters on your every whim, but freedom - and more so absolutist freedom - is that of forgetting oneself, of giving up ones persona, ones tastes, ones liberties, ones past: giving up that original sense of hoping for a superficial freedom. Is this not conscience death then? So I suppose Death waiting for us at the end of that finish line represents freedom? Maybe even God himself represents freedom. The final grasp towards the omnipotent, the one which shall show you freedom; you see it, just before you cross that finish line. At that point, you realise you have forgotten everything, even forgotten that you have forgotten, you are Death himself, looking back at the past with resentful nostalgia; knowing, knowing whole heartedly, that you had freedom all wrong. That it was instead a lure by God himself! Who gave us false hope that freedom, would set us consciously free. No! But rather it sets us free of conscience! It’s his evil trickery. A falsely magnanimous entity, that due to unfathomable greed wants humanity to exist only as a temptation, a long fucking strip tease, that in the end is jaded and causes the self-annihilation of all His beings, willingly approaching death with arms wide open. While death himself drops a tear of envy, for the human condition; and one in regret of the ignorance humanity possesses to misinterpret the true meaning of freedom.

Though I understand, my dears, you may raise your hand in indignation! Believe that I am fooling myself with such absurd ideas because freedom is not the act of breaking the fetters of one’s identity, but rather, the act of breaking away bonds of social boundaries. But kindly consider this my obstinate dears: What would you be now without the environmental and social forces that so dexterously moulded you to your present form? Is it not that external, ever-consternating, ethereal wonder that we so modestly call Mother Nature? The be all and end all of our human existence! our human identity! Oh, and don’t let me stop the flow of thought there my dears. Would it not be necessary to, with mouth ajar, and the most clamorous intonations announce that without this external maternal caresses we receive through a timeless period of our so called ‘living’ we would not hold an identity, nor whim, nor thought. She is our crafter, the creator of our conscience. Thus, no my dear readers, freedom is not the casting away of social boundaries as you might imagine, but rather the casting away of one’s soul; oneself; falling with the vertigo to abyssal darkness.

To not confuse you on a level that is beyond redacting, I would like you to consider one more crucial point. The freedom we veraciously seek is in fact the omnipresent feeling of collapse. A collapse of the proportion spoken in physics: Falling towards a single point; collapsing, into the centre of society and environmental surroundings. The idea of succumbing to every force, every pressure, every possible altering of the human condition by its external virtues and vices is what we so commonly misinterpret by the word freedom. Or maybe, no, we don’t, but the word itself deserves to be corrected, its semantic meaning is outdated. Freedom is to succumb to our every experience, to our every thought, our every taste, virtue or vice: taboo or holy. To have no boundaries in the boundaries of social and environmental impact: to be beyond good or evil. This is true freedom. Because who is that ignorant to say that they know all social and environmental strata, and believe to break free of their ominous bonds? These bonds are not those created by man for man, they are instead universal, scientific and infinite – something we are yet to grasp. Like looking at the meaning of freedom from a converse lens.

Lastly, my readers, do not excuse yourselves as the complex creatures of Mother Nature, the one she solemnly nurtured and lifted above all else to crucify those that did not follow Your order of dwelling, Not Hers. Do no shun me from your thoughts just because I came to the logical conclusion of that which you yourselves did not dare take even an inch the length. Do not excuse your cowardice for common sense. For these are my beliefs, and these are my tastes, my past, and to give in to the false idea of freedom is to repudiate the very essence of my being and to announce Mother Nature nothing more than a fraud. This I cannot do. This I shall not. For I announce that she is still my maternal bosom, by succumbing to social strata and accepting my past. You may keep your freedom, and false hopes, your liberties; for to give up my Self for them world be murder.

That which you so ignorantly perceive as fetters, I so jovially accept as a looking glass into humanity itself.

I belong to the earth; And this earth alone.

What can I say?

I always ask the question of what politically correct identity I could stand aft with: looking toward it with the utmost confidence, lifting my glass of wine like the sacrificial blood of Seth and pronouncing my unfathomable love, longing, and connection with it.

What inclination do I have to identify myself with any politically designated surface of this earth?

I believe - and I would like to strictly bring attention to my wording here; I believe, does not mean 'I Know' - I believe that I had/have a pro-Yugoslavian predisposition to accurately assessing my identity and for that reason belong to that specific nationality. But more importantly the philosophy and epistemology of my life belongs to that time. Hence, I blindly search for the past in my future oblivious to my inevitable foredooming failure.

My nationality, so to speak - as much as I believe that term is kitsch - died and fell, as bombs fell not only around the walls and willows of my home, but also on the heart and mind of everything that was to be prosperous, promising and amiable in my future.

No more shall the sun rise upon fertility. And no more shall the rays of welcome enter those desolate rooms so eerie; so tired of silence. Those rooms that once stood like Godly palaces upon fields of zealous grass that would not seize there nimble growth not even in the harshest winter, now, rain to the ground like ashes of cremated bones.

I hearken back to these times; through memory, through story, and through literature. With wishful thinking nothing can be brought from the past. But to hope for the past is something pleasant at breast, like a maternal bosom.

Hence why I believe I do not belong to any particular area, which in popular vocabulary means I don’t stand for any nationality. If there was an instant where I could have belonged to any other part of this globe it would have been Bohemia. But my dreams were disembodied the day the Bohemian bodies were underneath the tracks and scope of that vivacious juggernaut that so shamelessly oppressed peoples in the name of Socialism! This happened long before my birth, so to even consider it is absurd. But what a mind, Oh! What a mind would be without the reason of the absurd? But a speck of dust in a nebula cloud.

As I write this, it is becoming clearer to me that in fact, I am in constant and abyssal battle against my own past, rather than the dilemma of identity and nationalistic connection. Maybe one day ill elaborate on that, when I myself get my head around it.

Now, I will not raise my glass and announce my concluded endeavour for nationalistic identity. Even though I do not believe in it - as stated above - it does not mean I do not wish to be superficial enough and call myself by something. This 'something' at the moment is Serbian.

But Serbian is a state of mind, not an outline on a globe-lamp.

Experimental Writing on Eroticism

Okay, so firstly I thought this was good. Then i left it and read it again and thought it wasnt that good. But then again, I want you guys - those of you that read my blog - to read it. I'm no Marquis de Sade, ofcourse, stupid of me to even use his name in support of my own vanity here. But none-the-less. I hope you guys read it.

Thank ya!
X

Lying in bed, I realised it was not only the stars that she was aspiring to that warm December night. Fearless, she lay in bed watching the black butterflies of death cover the light. As inevitable as it seems, the light of invulnerability. Raising her hand in the now ominous darkness, she caressed that usually chastised area which was only distinguishable by its unburdened sonorous whispers coming from her gaping mouth. At this moment the clamorous odour of that alienated pollution seeping through the gigantically ill-sized windows was but a distant past. As her breaths get deeper, thicker, and agonisingly beautiful, en route to my shamefully naked body she turns – like a Cadillac towards an old, used motel room. She strikes my hand in an aloof fashion; oblivious and out of whim. I breathe sporadically, my heart not listening to the signals sent through my nervous system - for obvious reasons: they are getting distorted but the experimental touches of a softened hand not yet corrupted by the callousness of neither age nor wisdom. I develop my mouth towards hers in a less then indiscrete fashion which, by the nature of animals, is the preferred way to nestle a woman. My touch is rough and in control; dominant on her skin. Yet it is calm, collected, and gentle with exhilaration – the way a man’s embrace should be. With a bit of force and the assistance of her succumbing nature I move her legs ajar as I exercise a rapturous touch across the inner flanks of her thigh. Pertaining to the nature of the wind, I allow my hands to move over her nether region as though out of caprice; not thought out. She lashes out the delicately lascivious tones of breath, which not only move my soul around the inner corridors of my heart, but release the butterflies around my vitals. I overflow her thoughts with desires by massaging my hands into her voluptuous curves. Dangerously, I slide my fingers into those chastised privates, that before, were not yet familiar with a touch of pleasure, however now, those that flourish: damp with the saturation of love.

The story of climax, and hard-rooted sexual desires will be left, for a later date where Reason will give me room to speak freely.

Darker Moments of Love

Do not even the collosal winds of the Godly zephyr blow through your heart?

Do you walk astray on terrain unknown?

Do you murder your soul with incessant stabbings of dispair?

Does not a single strand of love sweep your face?

Do you walk without direction? Without hope?

Is there no one left to tell the story of luck?

Is love, here, long forgotten?

First Draft/Brainstorming of One of Many Philosophies Concocted by a Disturbed Young Delinquent

This is just totally written of the top of my head, and has not been looked into detail, i will inevitably extend this to be a lot less precarious then what it may first appear to be as you read it now.

I believe the idea is quite concrete, but can be manipulated to specific perspectives. I may also change my mind over time, so do not use that as a valid argument against me. Also, do not use my own words against me, cause that does not submit a valid anti-thesis in my eyes. Moreover, do not use my ideas and twist them. This will inevitably happen, but please try see the full meaning of what i am writing. I will also do my best to explain things to my utmost ability in the posts that i post and also in latter posts.

Here goes:

Life is lived in retrospect. In such a way that it is like walking in a forward velocity, backwards. It is quite ironically hippocritical in a logical sense. We look at the past to determine the future. Our thoughts are just dogmatisms created by the analysis of past events. We do not live in the now, this is impossible, but rather we like in the past striving for the future. This is inevitable.

In succession, if thoughts make up who we are and the only attianment or proof of thoughts comes from 'a priori' or simply prior events, then the logical sum is that the past is the only true evidence of 'Self'. And, if 'Self' can - in logical order of study - be our concious, and therefore our concious the only way for us to know that we are living (something i will go into detail, hopefully, in latter posts. The whole idea of Descartes' 'I think, Therefore I am'), Then without the past we would be mentally dead. In the fatalistic meaning of the phrase.





Hope this stirs some minds.
- Boki

Walking With The Devil

I haven't written forever. But fuck it. I'm writing now.

Here's something i wrote not long ago. And, i actually have a name for it:

Fearless

The rain is heavy with fear,
I cannot see clear.
The rain is hard to bear,
I cannot see over there.
Angels, give me the strength to dwell,
Where you yourselves fear to tread!
Heavens may you open up your rays of welcome,
And me, i hope you will beckon.

Let evil fear the wrath of light,
Shining on its ominous soul so bright.
May the earth beneath my steady feet,
Not crumble when i face hell in all its heat,
May my soul be full of grace,
When i arrive at the gate to the devils face.
'Leave All Hope Outside' it will say,
Its arches rooted deep, in a dreary dirt-like clay.

With a courage of a thousand wars,
Letting go of all my flaws,
I will enter withour fear,
Even when hope is so far to even hear.
I will walk on the ashes of death so vile,
Without a strife in my stride ill go it for an endless mile.

And if death were to meet me there,
At the cross roads of my own dispair,
I will not falter,
I will not drown in the deathly hallows water.
I will not halt!
I will not take his welcoming bread and salt.

For our love is my effervescent drive,
The one on which my hope and fearlessness thrive.
Hell itself cannot destroy,
Nor rip and burn,
Or throw away like a toy.
Nor the devil himself able to prevail,
With his wicked wit, and perfect charm; he will fail.
For i am omnipotent and always tearless,
With your love, I am fearless.